The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (43 page)

“Well, you look like you’re doing reasonably well,” she conceded. “You might have stuck around a while longer, though. It’s a hell of a way to get out of taking a lady to dinner.”

“Oh, I have no intention of reneging on our dinner date,” Adam said, gesturing for her to be seated. “May I have Humphrey bring tea or coffee? It’s a bit early for a drink—unless you’d care to stay for lunch.”

She smiled and sat, shrugging out of her coat. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have to get back to the hospital. I needed to escape the pre-Christmas crazies in ER for a few hours, so I thought I’d zip up and see how you’re doing. A cup of tea would be lovely, though. The Morgan is not exactly snug in this kind of weather.”

Smiling, Adam went over to the desk phone and dialed the kitchen.

“Tea for two, please, Humphrey,” he said, when the butler picked up. When Humphrey had acknowledged, Adam hung up and came to sit opposite her.

“How do you like your Morgan?” he asked. “I’ve always been fond of them myself. I ran a Plus Eight when I was at university.”

“Did
you?”

“Oh, yes. It was a bit shabby, I’m afraid, as student vehicles often are, but what it lacked in comfort, it more than made up for in panache.”

She grinned.
“Road and Track
says that misery is a Morgan in the rain. They don’t even
talk
about a Morgan in the snow. It’s cold, it’s drafty, it rides like a coal cart—and I love it. But I’m also thinking seriously about getting something else for the winter, laying up that beast until the spring.” She eyed him sidelong. “What do you drive now, when you aren’t totalling Range Rovers?”

“Oh, I have several old bangers in my stable,” he said with a droll smile. “I’d take you out and show you, but I’m not really shod for it.” He raised one slippered foot in illustration. “Perhaps you’ll come again to visit when I’m better recuperated.”

“Is that a variation on ‘Come up and see my etchings’?” she replied, fixing him with her direct gaze.

He found himself chuckling. Hers was a good, strong face, pertly attractive rather than classically beautiful, with a clear forthrightness he did not often detect in the women he usually met. He was spared having to answer by a discreet knock at the door, followed by the entry of Humphrey with the tea tray. He started to signal Humphrey to serve, not being certain whether presiding over a silver tea service was standard training for self-assured California physicians, but Ximena moved in gracefully as Humphrey set the tray on a rosewood side table, with every appearance of knowing exactly what she was about.

“I love fine old antiques that actually get used,” she said, as she moved the Sevres cups and saucers closer. “Milk and sugar?”

“Please. Two sugars.”

“The man says two—and two for the lady. You realize, of course, that we’ll both turn into diabetics.” As she poured the tea, she looked again at the lines of the teapot. “Yes, this is beautiful work. I’d guess Regency or shortly thereafter,
possibly
very early Victorian. There’s a distinct Scottish flavor to it, though.”

He nodded appreciatively as she handed over his cup and saucer. She had a good eye to go with the wit and obvious intelligence—and other parts were not too bad, either.

“George IV-1817,” he said. “It was made for a great, great grandmother as a wedding present. Those are her arms engraved alongside the Sinclair arms.” He gestured toward the shields as she picked up the creamer to look more closely. “Where did you learn about silver tea services?”

“My Austrian grandmother,” she said, replacing the creamer on the tray. “Not
all
Yanks are uncivilized, you know.”

“My mother will be delighted to hear you say that,” he said with a chuckle. “She’s an American and a true Yank—good New England stock. Another psychiatrist, as it happens.”

“Yes, you said she’s a physician. Does she practice here?”

“No, no, she’s just here for the holidays. She mostly moved back to the States, after my father died. She’s got a clinic in New Hampshire. I did some of my training in the States.”

“Really? Where?”

Their conversation treated mostly of medical training while they finished their tea, but Adam found himself increasingly intrigued by the forthright Dr. Ximena Lockhart. When she looked at her watch half an hour later and pronounced it time to leave, he was genuinely sorry, even though his aching body told him his rest was overdue.

“It really has been enjoyable, Dr. Sinclair—a welcome break from the chaos of the ER at this time of year.”

“Then you’ll have to come out again,” he said, standing as she rose. “And do call me Adam—please.”

She eyed him quizzically, then smiled. “I’d like that—on both counts,” she said bluntly. “And even though you went AWOL on me, I’d like to remain your attending physician, at least until those sutures are out.” She gestured toward the bandage on his head. “Which reminds me that I wanted to take a look under the bandage, see how you’re healing. May I?”

“You’re the doctor.” he said, sitting at her gesture.

Her touch was gentle as she lifted the tape far enough to peer underneath the dressing, and he was pleasantly aware of her closeness.

“Yes, indeed, you’re healing very nicely,” she said, as she peeled the dressing off the rest of the way. “Has Mum been taking care of you?”

He smiled slightly, for while Philippa had surveyed the damage shortly after he got home, the daily change of dressing had been the work of the indomitable Humphrey.

“It’s handy to have a physician in residence,” he said simply.

She folded the bandage in half and tossed it on the tea tray with a smile.

“Well, between her work and mine, you should be ready for the sutures to come out in another few days. You can leave it uncovered from here on out. Why don’t I drop by a day or two before Christmas, and I’ll do the honors? Can’t have you looking like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster for the holidays.”

“Do I look that bad now?” he teased.

“Well, you won’t frighten small children,” she said archly, “but aesthetically, black silk works better as underwear than as sutures.” She probed gently around the wounds again. “I did do a rather good job, though. Is that tender?”

“Not very,” he said bemusedly. “The shoulder is what’s slowing me down the most. I’m still pretty stiff.”

“Well, keep taking the mefenamic acid. You
are
still taking it, aren’t you? You didn’t take a prescription with you, what with ditching so quickly at the hospital.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I had Mummy write me new orders, and I’ve been taking my medication like a good boy.”

“Ve-ry
good,”
she said, as if amazed to hear it. “I’ll have to meet this mother of yours, who can make you follow doctor’s orders. I’ve really got to run now, though. Thanks for the tea.”

As she picked up her coat, he rose and helped her into it, one-handed though he was.

“You’re very welcome. And thank
you
for stopping by. I appreciate the visit.”

“My pleasure,” she replied. “ER physicians don’t often get to make house calls—and to such amazing houses. And I
will
make another one in about a week, to take out those sutures—unless you’re determined to do it yourself.”

“No, I think I’ll let my attending physician do that,” he said, smiling as he walked her to the door. “It will give her another excuse to attend.”

“Will you show me your ‘old bangers’ next time?” she quipped.

“Oh, yes. And possibly my etchings too,” he returned.

She laughed delightedly and waved as she headed down the steps to her car. Adam did not accompany her, for the steps were icy and his slippers not up to such footing, but he stood in the open doorway until the yellow-and-black Morgan had disappeared down the drive before returning to the shelter of the house.

* * *

He retired for a much-needed nap after that, and woke around four, now ready to eat again. McLeod rang as he was finishing, but the news was sparse.

“Our bird seems to have flown the coop,” he said, as Adam strained to make out his voice over the background noise of heavy traffic. “We talked to his houseboy, but Raeburn allegedly is out of town on business—funny business if you ask me. Anyway, Donald and I are going to do some follow-up when we get back to the office—see what else we can find out about his personal history.”

“What have you got so far?” Adam asked.

“A bit more, from checking the Who’s Who and such. He’s listed in official bios as a business entrepreneur—which is a pretty broad classification. All his current CV’s make much of him being a native Scot, born and bred in Scotland. I’m going to do some further checking. I should have something more solid sometime tomorrow.”

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon of the following day that McLeod called back. But as soon as Adam heard the inspector’s voice, he knew McLeod had something to be excited about.

“Well, chalk up another good hunch,” the inspector said. “I knew there was something hinky about him, besides just being an unpleasant fellow. I had a contact at St. Catherine’s House in London do a search on both birth and marriage records. Our Mr. Raeburn was
not
born in Scotland, and only one of his parents was Scottish. He was born in London and subsequently raised by his maternal grandparents at their house in Stirling, Nether Leckie, where he now lives. Raeburn is actually his mother’s name.”

“Was she not married to his father, then?” Adam asked.

“Oh, she was married to him, all right. The birth was legitimate.”

“You’re about to drop the other shoe,” Adam said. “Who was his father?”

“How about a Welshman, name of David Tudor-Jones?”

A large number of the remaining pieces in the puzzle suddenly came together with a snap. David Tudor-Jones had been Master of the Lodge of the Lynx in the time of Adam’s predecessor, and was the man most directly responsible for the death of Sir Michael Brodie, Lady Julian’s husband.

“Good God,” Adam said flatly. “You do realize who we’re talking about here?”

“Aye. It appears that Philippa isn’t the only one to have passed on her knowledge and vocation to her offspring. I thought that line had been cut off at the root, years ago.”

“So did I,” Adam said.

He stared distractedly at the wall in front of him, seeing not the wallpaper pattern of lilies and wheat-sheaves but the image of Randall Stewart lying dead in his own frozen blood, in a snowy wood north of Blairgowrie—and a much earlier memory, when he himself was still hardly more than a fledgling like Peregrine, mourning with an earlier configuration of the Hunting Lodge over the slain Michael Brodie.

“So where do we go from here?” McLeod asked, after a pregnant silence, broken only by the sound of the traffic in the background

“We shift into Hunting mode,” Adam said incisively. “I’m thinking of the pendulum work Peregrine did Sunday afternoon. I’m thinking that it might be profitable to check out that area in the Cairngorms that he kept coming back to. We now
know
why he kept indicating Stirling. Do you think you could get tomorrow off?”

“Impossible, on such short notice,” McLeod replied. “I’m still tied up with the Dunfermline case. I
might
be able to get away on Thursday.”

“That will have to do, then,” Adam said. “I probably ought to check in at the hospital anyway. I haven’t made rounds since
last
Wednesday. I definitely want you along, though, if there’s even a chance that the Lynx have established a new lair up there.”

“Are you sure you’re up to all of this?” McLeod asked.

“I’ll manage—and better with you along than without,” he said. “I’ll dragoon Peregrine into coming too. It’ll be a warm-up for his initiation. Incidentally, we’re aiming at Friday night, to put back the pieces for Gillian Talbot and hopefully to bring Peregrine officially into the Lodge. Can I count on you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” McLeod replied. “We’ll plan on Thursday, then, for our foray north. The snow’s been heavy. What do you want to do about a vehicle? Your Rover isn’t going anywhere besides the scrap yard, and we’ll want four-wheel drive, for that terrain.”

“How about if you ferret out a suitable rental and bring it up Thursday morning to my place?” Adam suggested. “Will your credit card stand the deposit? I’ll put it all on mine, when I return it. And Peregrine and I will drive you home Thursday night, when we get back.”

“That’s workable on all counts,” McLeod agreed. “What time do you want me there Thursday morning?”

“Make it about six, and I’ll have Humphrey lay on a hearty breakfast before we head out. That way, we can clear Perth before the morning traffic hits. Meanwhile, keep me informed if anything else turns up tomorrow, will you?”

He had Humphrey run a written message down to the gate lodge when McLeod had rung off, for he knew Peregrine was off on a sketching session for a new portrait commission and expected to be back late. Mrs. Talbot joined him and Philippa for dinner later that evening, but afterwards Adam drew his mother aside for a quick update on developments and plans before an early bed.

He was recovering every day, though. On Wednesday morning he actually managed to tie his tie without assistance for the first time since his accident, and was feeling almost his usual self as Humphrey drove him in to Jordanburn. He had exchanged the industrial-strength sling of canvas and nylon webbing for a more discreet black silk scarf supporting his wrist, since he still needed to keep the weight off his abused shoulder. However, this only lent a subtle dash to his usual dapper appearance, almost disappearing against his navy suit, as he made abbreviated rounds of all his hospital patients and held an impromptu seminar for his students.

After lunch, on impulse, he had Humphrey detour past the Royal Infirmary. A distinctive yellow-and-black Morgan caught his eye in the physicians’ car park, so he directed Humphrey to pull up in one of the ambulance bays outside Emergency while he poked his head inside. The place was a bustle of activity, as such places tended to be, but though he did not immediately spot Ximena, he did recognize the orderly who had wheeled him around the previous Friday.